


Wishes

by theorchardofbones



Series: Promptio Ficlets & Drabbles [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Mild Angst, That's it, that's all the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 11:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10990278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: I'll leave it up to the readers to decide what Prompto wished for in the end; I certainly have my own ideas but I guess we'll never know — after all, if you tell people what you wish for, it'll never come true.





	Wishes

Prompto doesn’t believe in wishes. He doesn’t, but he used to.

When he was a kid, he would pass a fountain on his way to school every day, and each time he walked by he would stop for just a moment and make an offering. Sometimes it was money, though more often than not it was a pretty pebble picked up from the sidewalk, or a feather, or even on one occasion a bright yellow shell left behind by a snail.

When he threw his offering in he would squeeze his eyes shut and make a wish with all his might. 

In middle school, he realised that no amount of wishing was going to save him from his loneliness; he would have to do that himself. The next time he passed the fountain, he barely spared it so much as a glance.

He tells himself he doesn’t believe in wishes, but there was the time at the Crow’s Nest when there had been a little girl at a booth with her dad, closing her eyes and blowing out the candles on her birthday cake. When she had opened her eyes again her mother had strolled in the door, suitcase in hand, and that little girl had run and hugged her so tight Prompto thought she’d never let go.

The weather’s already getting hotter on the road to Lestallum — heavy and muggy. From what the weather reports on the radio lead them to believe, it’ll only be more unbearable once they hit the city limits.

Prompto has his head on his arm, leaning against the door while Ignis drives. The heat’s making him sleepy, and the rocking motion of the Regalia as it passes over the little bumps in the road isn’t exactly helping.

Prompto looks back in the mirror; Gladiolus rests his chin in his hand in the seat behind, staring out at the scenery with his eyes half-closed, as though he’s fighting sleep too. When Gladiolus moves his eyes to meet his, Prompto looks away as heat rushes to his cheeks.

* * *

There’s a fountain in Lestallum, outside the Leville — some ultra-modern statement piece made up of dark granite and geometric angles. A kid flicks a coin into it as he passes by, barely breaking stride.

‘Wonder if you counted up all the coins in the bottom of that thing,’ Gladiolus says, ‘just how many wishes there’d be that never came true.’

Prompto knows he’s right — knows that all the gil glittering in the bottom of the fountain, just like the coins and trinkets he used to throw into the one on the journey to school each day, are wasted. Still, as the others move on ahead he lingers by it for a little while, inspecting the myriad colors and engravings of the coins in the water. Some are tinged green with verdigris, and he wonders how long they’ve been there.

Maybe the things he threw into the fountain back in Insomnia are still there even now that the water has probably shut off; even now that there’s nobody there to pass by it any more.

He folds his arms across his chest as though there’s a chill to the air.

When he looks up towards the Leville, Gladiolus is at the entrance, watching him.

* * *

Dreams come with the fluttering of dark feathers and the sting of cold steel biting into his skin. He wakes with a little gasp, sitting upright and looking blearily about in the dark of the hotel room. Noctis is still snoring noisily and he can hear soft breathing elsewhere in the room.

He’s the only one awake.

Silently, he slips out of bed and pulls on his pants and boots, tiptoeing out of the room.

The heat is barely less oppressive by night than it had been during the day; Prompto feels like he’s breathing through a lungful of water. The city feels too claustrophobic, the streets too narrow and buildings too high.

There’s an outlook, across the road from the city proper. He makes his way there now, ducking his head as he passes by Lestallum’s working populace, out enjoying the night after a long day of toiling at the power plant.

There are two cars pulled in on the edge of the sidewalk, one dented at the front while the other bears matching marks on the rear. A man and a woman bicker over the collision, hands waving animatedly as they each deflect blame onto the other. From a window, an old woman screams at them to keep it down.

Prompto puts them behind him, tuning out their voices with every step that takes him closer to the outlook.

It’s all too much — the heat, the noise, the crowds. Insomnia never bothered him with its perpetual bustle, a city always awake, always on the move, but after weeks on the road, after going days at a time without seeing another person outside of their little posse, it all feels like white noise.

It’s cooler out here, the hint of a breeze rushing to kiss his skin as he trots up to the wall surrounding the outlook. He braces his hands on the stone surface and leans against the edge of it, looking out into the night.

There’s not much to see in the dark — the scenery is all the same expanse of black, one landmark indistinguishable from the next. The Disc of Cauthess burns off in the distance, a muted glow on the horizon. The night is still.

He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there before he hears the scuff of boots on the ground behind him and realises he’s not alone. Probably one of the refugees from the Crown City, here to admire the view. He pays them no mind, burying his face in his hands and giving a long, weary yawn.

‘Can’t sleep?’

The yawn has barely tapered off when he turns and looks to find Gladiolus standing a few steps away, staring off into the distance. He feels a little lurch in his belly at the sight of his friend, but puts it out of his head.

‘Too hot,’ Prompto says. ‘Started having some crazy dreams. You?’

Gladiolus grunts.

‘You get so used to camping, it’s a little weird sleeping in a real bed.’

Prompto smirks. He can’t say he’s surprised — he wonders if Gladio’s dad was like this back when he used to venture around with King Regis, or if the apple fell far from the tree.

With a twinge, he realises he’ll probably never find out.

‘Never thought I’d say this,’ he says, ‘but I kinda agree. You start to get used to rocks digging into your back every time you roll over.’

Gladiolus flicks his eyes up to him and Prompto sees he’s got a wry little grin on his lips. He rests a hand on his hip as he looks Prompto over.

‘I must be dreaming,’ he says. ‘Did you actually admit you like camping?’

Prompto puts his hands up in front of him, a gesture of concession.

‘Maybe _like_ is a little strong…’

Gladiolus snorts. When he turns back to the view, he’s still smiling.

‘Just wait,’ he says. ‘When this is all over and it’s back to soft beds and home cooked meals, you won’t know what to do with yourself.’

There it is — their reluctant motto. _When this is all over._

They keep saying it, keep talking about what they’ll do after they find Lady Lunafreya, after they get the Crystal back from Niflheim. After they save the day.

When it’s all over, will there even be a home to go back to?

His stomach flips and roils with the thought of it, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Gladiolus is silent, his gaze locked on some faraway place. The sly smile is gone from his lips, his mouth instead in a grim line. 

‘We should try to get some rest,’ Gladiolus says.

He pushes off from the wall, uses the momentum to stride away — but he stops before he can get very far, his hand delving into his pocket. He comes back to Prompto’s side and reaches out to him, his fist closed around something.

Prompto looks at Gladiolus’s hand warily, like it might explode. What’s the worst that could be in there, enclosed within his fingers?

He stretches his own hand out and feels Gladiolus press something warm and solid into it. When Prompto looks, it’s a coin — not gil, but one of the shiny silver pieces from Insomnia, with a crown etched into its surface.

‘For the fountain,’ Gladiolus says. He’s looking off over Prompto’s head, maybe at the view — maybe at nothing at all. ‘You’re prob’ly better at coming up with wishes anyways.’

Prompto stares after him when he goes, hand still outstretched with the coin in his palm.

* * *

Noct is passed out when Prompto wakes up the next morning, long after the others. He’s dead to the world — he doesn’t even stir when Gladiolus throws a pillow at his head.

‘Perhaps he could use a chance to recuperate,’ Ignis says.

There’s worry in the lines at the corners of his mouth; he knows Noctis better than any of them, and seems to fret over the prince more as the days go by.

‘We could… go exploring?’ Prompto suggests. ‘Check out the sights? Noct hates that touristy stuff anyway.’

There’s no use showering in heat like this — they’ll be dripping in sweat again before long. They head out with Noctis still snoring loudly, his mouth hanging wide open where he slumbers in a puddle of his own drool.

Talcott offers to bring them around; he's so earnest, they can hardly refuse.

A wall of hot air hits them when they step outside the Leville; already Prompto had forgotten how bad it was the day before. He misses the dark of the night, and the gentle breeze out on the outlook.

Ignis wants to check out the markets first — to sift through the exotic spices and rare ingredients and see if inspiration strikes. Prompto doesn’t know how he can think about cooking when it’s so muggy and warm.

Outside on the steps, he pauses.

‘You guys go on ahead. I’ll catch up.’

Gladiolus watches him with a raised eyebrow; Ignis sets off alongside Talcott without a word.

‘You okay?’ Gladiolus asks.

Prompto can’t think of the last time somebody asked him that — checked in to see how he was doing, for once. He supposes they’ve all had their minds on other matters, too busy dwelling on their own demons to think about anybody else’s.

If he asked Gladio the same question, what answer would he get?

He doesn’t ask; doesn’t think Gladiolus would do anything but shrug it off, the way he always does. Gladiolus, ever the practical — the king’s shield, above all.

‘Yeah,’ he says, in his most convincing voice. ‘I think I forgot something in the hotel.’

Gladiolus doesn’t go right away. He looks like he might say something else, but then he shakes his head a little and turns to go, catching up to the others quickly with a few long strides.

The coin is hot from sitting in Prompto’s pocket; he fumbles to grab it with sweat-slick fingers and takes a moment to wipe his hand off on his pants before reaching for it again.

Something makes him want to keep the damn thing, and he doesn’t know if it’s because it’s from Insomnia or because Gladio gave it to him. Either way, he squeezes it tightly in the palm of his hand and tosses it straight up in the air before catching it neatly in his palm.

He feels silly — like that sad, lonely kid who thought magic or fortune or _whatever_ could change his life for the better. He almost drops the coin back into his pocket before he tells himself that it’s not about _him_ this time.

He stands at the edge of the fountain with his eyes closed, trying to convince himself he doesn’t look like a jackass for standing there so long, his fist closed around a worthless coin. He can hear the city going on around him in the chattering of the locals, the music of the buskers, the hum of car engines out on the road. When he listens real hard, he thinks he hears Gladiolus somewhere, laughing unselfconsciously.

Prompto holds his breath, opens his eyes, and tosses the coin. It clips the edge of one of the granite tiers of the fountain with a tiny _ping_ , then ricochets backwards into the water with a reassuring splash.

Whatever — whoever — might be out there, listening to the wishes of hopeless souls tossing coins into fountains near and far, he hopes they heard his loud and clear.

The ripples in the water have barely had a chance to peter out when he takes off at a jog after his friends, his boots pounding noisily on the cobblestones beneath him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll leave it up to the readers to decide what Prompto wished for in the end; I certainly have my own ideas but I guess we'll never know — after all, if you tell people what you wish for, it'll never come true.


End file.
